“Hope in reality is the worst of all evils because it prolongs the torments of man.” Friedrich Nietzsche

Well geez, Nicole, that’s a little dark. 

I know… and it’s not my usual outlook, but today, I’m angry at hope. I’m angry at the small, tiny voice of hope that says “what if”. What if you really are pregnant this time and not just late?

Of course I’m not. The red streak on that wad of toilet paper confirmed it for me just moments ago.

I’m angry that despite all logic, all knowing, all the years of irregular cycles that tell me this is just another late cycle…despite it all…I google the symptoms, I count the days, I negotiate when I will actually pee on that stupid stick…if I make it until Saturday morning I’ll test.  It’s Friday afternoon. 

I’m angry that I still, after all the needles and dollars and dates with ‘wanda’, I still found myself feeling giddy and daydreaming about how I would tell my husband that we were pregnant– on our own.

I still calculated the due date and wondered if maybe we wouldn’t find out the gender until the baby was born. I still allowed myself to believe it was possible.

Hope. Today I wish I could silence her tiny but unyielding voice. Today I wonder if I will spend the rest of my life, at least my pre-menopausal life, facing the heartbreak of hoping despite all odds that I’m actually pregnant this time. 

Tomorrow will be better. Tomorrow I will embrace hope, love hope, believe in the necessity of hope.

But not today.